But being so swiftly rejected by Max Fletcher has somehow managed to poke tiny holes in all those confidences I’ve worked my entire life to build.
“You are the dumbest smart person I know,” Dakota jabs, taking a sip of her second cocktail that was delivered smoking inside a glass dome on a platter for dramatic effect.
It’s Saturday night, and we’re currently at a place called License No. 1. It’s a dark, sultry, Speakeasy-type bar located in the stone basement of a historic hotel in downtown Boulder. There’s a live jazz band playing on the small stage, and the place is brimming with couples.
Clearly, Dakota and I are not joining the couple crowd anytime soon. In fact, I’m debating joining the friendship crowd because with every judgmental word Dakota shoots my way, I realize I might be in the market for a new best friend.
“Thanks, bestie,” I snap, grumpily sipping my lavender gin cocktail in a fancy coupe glass.
She rolls her eyes. “Like honestly, all those romance novels you’ve been reading lately should be making you more confident, not less.”
I eye her warily. There is just something righteously irritating about childhood best friends. They think they can voice any opinion about you because they happened to wear a heart-shaped pewter pin with your picture in it on their sweater to school every day in fifth grade. Apparently, that level of bestie devotion means they can make scathing remarks on your personality or lack of emotional intelligence while smugly insinuating they know you better.
Even tonight, when we were looking at the extensive cocktail menu, I struggled with what to order, so Dakota just picked one for me while in the bathroom without even asking me.
It was fucking delicious.
Damn her.
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better about my situation, not worse.” I slide my finger along the fancy charcuterie board that we demolished within moments of the server setting it down in front of us. I really love how they added handles to the sides. I should shop for hardware tomorrow to add that to mine.
Dakota reaches out and touches my hand. “Focus, Cozy. You just told me you had a hot make-out sesh with Million-Dollar Max that involved loads of heavy petting and a hickey souvenir.” She giggles on the last word, and I debate punching my best friend in the nose. “And then he just freaked out and bolted?”
My hand touches the space on my chest where the red welt is, and images of last night explode in my mind. His body, his tongue, his teeth, our breaths. I close my eyes and swallow the knot in my throat. “That about covers it.”
“And you think it’s because he’s out of your league?” She stares at me in disbelief.
I shrug and nod, forcing my chin not to wobble with the overwhelming sense of raw vulnerability I’m feeling right now.
“Hi, Crazy, I’m Dakota. It’s nice to meet you.” Dakota holds her hand out for me to shake, and I smack it away. She sighs heavily. “Honestly, Cozy, I don’t even understand this side of you. Our whole lives, you’ve never been insecure. It’s the thing I admire most about you. Not your freakishly smart brain that seems to be both analytical and creative, not even your insane ability to make a stunning charcuterie board, or the fact that you know how to show sheep because of the years you spent in 4-H. It’s your strikingly effortless confidence that gets my panties wet.”
I pause before putting an olive into my mouth. “That was a bit too specific.”
“Well, it’s the truth,” she huffs indignantly. “You’re hot, but your confidence makes you a total catch. Which is why I’m struggling to get past the comment you made about being ‘too fat’ for Max Fletcher!”
“Would you keep your voice down,” I hiss, leaning across the table to shoot daggers at her. It took a lot for me to admit that insecure thought but hearing her say it back to me fills me with regret.
My stomach sinks as I prepare to reveal the dark truth that I haven’t shared with my questionable best friend tonight. The truth that’s been living rent free in my mind all day long.
“It’s not just the physical aspect.” I blow a slow breath out of my mouth and continue, “It’s the fact that Max is a multimillionaire with a successful company. He has a gorgeous home, a sweet daughter, an ex-wife who, by all accounts, he gets along well with. He has his life together, and here I am, a twenty-six-year-old nanny who just moved out of my sister’s spare bedroom into a tiny house on his property that is nicer than anything I’ve ever lived in before. I have absolutely nothing to offer him. It’s no wonder he took a second look at me and ran for the hills.”